In the Line of Duty
by Arhie
Summary: 5 times McCoy stayed behind, and 1 time he didn't.
1. Chapter 1: Needed

**Chapter 1: Needed**

AN: To reiterate the summary, these are five times Dr. Leonard H. McCoy stayed behind, and one time he didn't.

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Trek_. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

"Your medical training notwithstanding, your martial skills are hardly such as to be of assistance. I am more, not less, likely to be injured if you accompany me."

"Why you green-blooded – "

"I merely state the facts, Doctor. The odds of success increase by 37.62% if you remain here unseen."

"Goin' in alone is a damn-fool idea."

"Solitude allows stealth, Doctor. If I do not return in two hours, an emergency beacon to Mr. Scott should resolve your situation. "

"Be careful."

"To be injured is never my intention."

"You succeed a heck of a lot for it to be an accident."

"Your illogic never ceases to confound, Doctor. I anticipate that I will emerge unharmed. The captain, however, may require your assistance."

"I´ll get my kit ready – for him and for you."

"Very well, Doctor."

"I saw that, Spock."

"I have no idea to what you could possibly refer."

"Sure you don´t.

...

Spock! Thank God."

"Doctor. You were to have beamed aboard."

"I was hardly going to leave you because of a lousy twenty minutes. I _was_ at the briefing, you know. Ow."

"Your agility and grace continue to impress."

"Shut up and let me take a look at Jim.

..

What did they do to him?"

"The usual. Not very creative."

"Captain. I believed you to be unconscious."

"I probably was. Thanks for coming to get – _Bones!"_

"Don´t act surprised, Captain. He´s fine to beam up, Spock. Let´s get out of here before they leave without us."

"Spock to Enterprise."

"Scott here. Cuttin´ it a bit close, are we now?"

"We´ve got five whole minutes, Scotty. Does Chapel have the gurneys ready?"

"That she does, Doctor."

"Well, they´re both stable for transport."

"Both, Doctor? "

"Can it, Spock. Ready?"

"Aye, Doctor."

"Energize.

Don´t even think about it. You´re in Sick Bay until I say otherwise."

"Dr. McCoy, you are being irrational. I am adequately well."

"You´re bleeding, you pointy-eared hobgoblin. Get on that gurney and stay there until I personally say you can leave. That´s a medical order."

"Bones –"

"The same applies to you, Captain. Let´s go, Nurse."

* * *

AN: The 5&1 is one of my favorite fanfic genres, and I'm excited to try it out. Please let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2: Wanted

**Chapter 2: Wanted**

AN: Not all of these installments will be written in dialogue-only format. Sometimes, however, the characters start talking in my head and will not pipe down until I get their blitherings on paper.

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Trek_. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

"I mean it, Jim. These people could change how we think about medicine. I'm just askin' for a month. We're gonna be in the system anyway."

"Not for a month, Bones."

"I'm telling you, this is important. Their medicine is completely different than anything I've seen before."

"I appreciate that, but you do have a job on the ship. This morning you had some pretty strong opinions about whether you had time to finish annual physicals."

"A trained monkey could do the annual physicals. M'Benga and Chapel certainly can, particularly if you and Spock refrain from acting like fools on away teams. If you two would stop antagonizin' the natives –"

"We never antagonize them."

" – Or even better, stay on the ship like you're supposed to – "

"Bones."

"– Medical might have a chance between stitching you up to _do _the physicals_. _Seriously, Jim, you've been attracting trouble like horseflies to a stable for months. Can't you join a single away team without landing in my sickbay?"

"We have a mission."

"That pixie dust they use might _be_ a new life form. This is completely consistent with the mission."

"I'll give you two weeks."

"I'll barely be started in two weeks, Jim. We have nothing in the databases. Look, I can keep in touch with M'Benga on subspace, talk him through any emergency surgeries –"

"Two weeks, Bones."

"Dammit, Jim – "

"Two weeks, and I´ll stay off away teams until you get back so you can concentrate."

"…Really?"

"Sure."

"And Spock."

"Not a chance."

...

"Are ye ready to beam aboard, Doctor?"

"All set, Scotty.

"Need some help with that, Bones?"

"Got it. I swear, it´s easier to balance during a warp jump than during a beamup."

"How was the pixie dust?"

"Incredible. I´ll be going over my notes and these samples for months. Jim, the chromosomal interplay between the nanogenes and the – " *

"Save it for Spock, Bones."

"Speaking of Spock, how were your last two weeks?"

"Sitting on the ship reading reports about planets and civilizations instead of meeting them? Longest two weeks of my life. Couldn't end soon enough."

"Now don't be getting any ideas. Two weeks does not the end of a jinx make. A fellow might think that someone else would have the bad luck for a while, but you seem to be hogging it for the whole ship. I'm going to stop you now, because I know that look on your face but you know that I don't want the rest of the crew hurt any more than you do. I just wish you could catch a break."

"It's good to see you, too, Bones. I'm glad you're back."

* * *

*Nanogenes are also not mine, and are borrowed with love from the ninth incarnation of ___Doctor Who._

What did you think? Like many authors on this site, I'm always trying to get better. Please let me know what worked (or didn't), via review or PM. On this installment, I added a couple of slang phrases that I'm not sure were in parlance when TOS aired. If you see something that is out of place, I'd particularly appreciate it if you pointed it out.

-Arhie


	3. Chapter 3: Ordered

**Chapter 3: Ordered**

AN: I apologize for the delay. Thanks for reading!

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Trek_. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

Ensign Kowalsky was determined to make lieutenant. Normally, there would be no particular rush. He knew he was a good officer, and he had just become eligible a few weeks ago. He had the rest of the year to earn his stripe before his commission would be under review. As far as Martin Kowalsky was concerned, however, the deadline was in three months, at crew rotation.

Ensigns were rotated every eighteen to twenty-four months, and he'd already been on the _Enterprise_ for a year and a half. If he wanted to stay – and boy, did he – he would have to do so as a lieutenant. Not only did they rotate only every two to three years, but the clock would restart with the promotion. It wasn't a guarantee to stay aboard the _Enterprise_, but without the promotion he'd have to chance at all. This was why, three hours into his liberty shift, he was tucked into a corner of the engineering bay, tabulating intraship locator queries.

After the Enterprise's last firefight, he'd overheard Lt. Uhura and Lt Comm. Scott discussing demands on the ship's mainframe. Locating people for hails was communication's greatest drain on the ship computer. If Martin could improve the efficiency of the locator program, the seconds saved in a crisis situation could be crucial – and the contribution to his resume just might be the thing he needed for that stripe.

While he was new to the officer corps, he'd interned all over Starfleet Communications during his Academy years. No way was he missing the chance to stay on the _Enterprise_. There had to be a way to improve the algorithm, and he was pretty sure he was on the right track. The statistics currently crunching in the computer would allow a probability-based scan of the ship. If the computer checked the most likely places, first , query time would be shorted. This had the dual benefit of getting the answer faster and freeing up computer capacity for other queries, making them happen faster, too. He just had to figure out how to set up those probability tables.

Some were easy. When the captain called Lt. Comm Scott from the bridge, the computer should check engineering first. Actually, when anyone called the chief engineer from anywhere, engineering should be the first check no matter the time of day. The doctor was a bit more complicated. If Nurse Chapel was calling, check the bridge first. If Commander Spock or Captain Kirk were calling, go for Sickbay. Good.

For officers with fewer calls, duty stations were good starting points. For other frequently contacted personnel, a basic count of where they were when past calls came through would be enough. For Commander Spock, for example, check the bridge, then the science labs, the away team roster, then sickbay. Best of all, the computer could update the statistics during low-use periods, then automate the program when the computer demand reached a pre-set threshold.

For the commander alone, using this algorithm instead of the undifferentiated scan of the ship would result in a 36% increased locator efficiency. The commander, of course, would probably be able to specify the efficiency to several decimal places. Ensign Kowalksy, however was confident he would still be impressed, as would Lt. Uhura, Lt. Comm Scott, and Captain Kirk. He just needed to figure out how to automate the process so the computer could optimize itself in low-demand periods.

The problem was that the captain was called at all hours and by all departments. While he was on the bridge more often than any other place, he was so many other places, particularly in a crisis, that no regression Kowalsky had tried produced significant time savings. The algorithm itself took some time to load and some space to store, so he needed at least 10% increased efficiency just to break even. If his program slowed contact to the captain it would not be implemented. No ship or station could afford to slow communication to the primary leader, no matter how much faster they'd be able to reach the lower echelons.

He was, therefore, sitting at the console Lt Comm Scott had lent him during slow times in the engineering bay, three weeks after he'd hoped to finish the free time project, with promotions and crew rotation looming, sorting and re-sorting communications to the captain, exhausting all the tools and tricks he could remember, find, or beg off his shipmates to find a pattern in locator queries for Captain James T. Kirk.

He shifted in his seat, stretching his back and rubbing at the bruise on his neck from Dr. McCoy's hypospray. He'd worked hard to be in great shape for this last physical before promotion review. While he'd gotten top marks for his fitness, Doctor McCoy had been in the kind of mood he usually reserved for guards who roughhoused with phasers, engineers who left off their safety glasses, or the first officer.

Martin knew why the doctor was angry, He'd been collecting the logs from one of the hallway communicator hubs when Dr. McCoy and the captain had com storming back from the planet two days ago.

"_You insulted them, and now we have to spend the next few days coaxing them back to the confidence and trust in the Federation that they had when we got here. You will stay on the ship for the duration of this mission and until you can control yourself."_

"_This mission is dangerous, Jim. Inexperience and recklessness have no place working with high speeds and combustibles."_

"_It's not a negotiation, Doctor McCoy. You are ordered to remain on the ship except in case of medical emergency."_

_At the order the CMO's face had slid from earnest concern to stillness. The captain for a moment met his CMO's frozen expression, the continued down the hallway alone. It was a few seconds before the doctor walked way in the opposite direction._

Knowing why Dr. McCoy was out of sorts didn't make Martin's neck hurt any less, which in turn didn't help the headache he was giving himself from frustration and growing panic. No one, not even a captain who liked to get in the thick of the action no matter where it is on the ship, was going to keep him from having a shot at keeping the best job he'd ever dreamed of holding.

He grimaced at the screen embedded in his station, now showing an example of that very trait. When the synthesizer coils malfunctioned last week, no fewer than fourteen different personnel had sent thirty-six location queries that found the captain in six different sectors of the ship – not one of which was the bridge – in a four- hour period. Briefly wishing the captain would just stay on the bridge before mentally smacking himself for the idea of Captain Kirk with a hands-off leadership style, he tried a nested logic tree sorting by source personnel and source location. The computer chirped its report of failure. He tried again, replacing source location with time of query. There had to be some kind of - well, that's funny.

In the last two days, Dr. McCoy had placed location check for the captain every twenty to sixty minutes – all day and all night. If the data weren't hard enough to process already, someone had to go do something like this. Despite using nearly two years of data, this was throwing off the statistics, He'd have to completely discard the analysis he'd done last month.

He reshuffled the data by source location and duty shift. There had to be a pattern here somewhere, and he had to find it soon. Martin groaned into the heel of his hand. When he'd last worked on the captain's data, this had been the most promising cascade. The dozens of new queries from Dr. McCoy shifted the distribution completely. He'd have to throw out all his previous work to include this new data.

"Alright there, laddie?"

Martin jumped at the amused brogue. The chief engineer had been a mentor of sorts on the project. Recruiting his help had been Lt. Uhura's idea. To Martin's gratified surprise the lieutenant commander had been enthusiastic and encouraging from the first stammered questions. He had even arranged Martin's use of the data station on slow shifts, like now when most of the engineering team was on the planet getting ready for the test launches. Just as helpful was the thoughtful advice dispensed when the Scotsman dropped by, this time evidently just returned from the planet surface, to check on his progress. The chief engineer was eager to streamline communications, although he admitted he much preferred the engines.

"Dr. McCoy is ruining my life."

"Sounds serious. Surely the physical dinnae go so badly as that?"

"What? Oh, no, the physical was fine. The problem is that all my statistics depend on using a representative sample of locator queries. When I get this kind of nonsense, it compromises the whole project." He pushed the padd with his most recent algorithm toward the engineer. "I was counting on being able to use a small sample and extrapolate. My differential equations aren't good enough to automate a regression on the whole data set. I'm doomed."

"Well, that's a puzzle. For the math, me laddie, I know just the thing. Don't ye fret."

Ensign Kolawsky listened with hope fading to horror as the chief engineering looked up from his scan of the ensign's data padd, his concerned expression unfolding into his usual open pragmatism as he declared that Commander Spock would be the perfect person to assist with the data.

...

That evening, a nerve-wracked communications officer found himself at the science labs, clutching his padd and data cards, wondering whether it was too late to run back to his quarters and let his next assignment fall where it would. Lt Comm Scott said the data was very important, he reassured himself. It was a good project, and really he just needed some help with the final numbers.

Thus encouraged, he headed in to find Mr. Spock just in time to miss the end of that first officer's conversation with one Scotsman. The latter detoured by his own quarters before emerging with a nearly concealed package cradled in one arm. By the time Ensign Kowalsky had explained his project to the science officer, the chief engineer had started the trek through less-traveled corridors from engineering to 3F 127 in the officer quarters nearest the medical bay.

After the twenty of the most nerve-wracking minutes of his life, including the Starfleet Academy entrance exam, Ensign Kowalsky walked as quickly as professional bearing allowed out of the lab. He could not believe that the meeting had gone so well. He'd been on the right track. Mr. Spock had been very helpful and had shown him how to generalize the algorithm. Now that he understood the principle, the whole project seemed easy. He could use all the data from every comm unit on the ship. It would mean extra legwork but more useful results. If he started tonight, he might be able to have the whole project complete before they left orbit.

He dropped into a Jeffries tube and started crawling to the nearest hub. He had just set up his equipment to download the logs from the comm on the other side of the wall when he recognized a voice above him.

"I cannae make a Finnegan's Folly to match yours, Doctor, but I brought some of me own supply."

"Not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but what brought this on? Ship's gossip aside, it's hardly the first time Jim and I have disagreed.

Martin froze. A chair creaked immediately over the ensign's head as Mr. Scott made himself comfortable. "Aye, but most times I dinnae have an enterprising young ensign rewriting communicator software, so I dinnae ken how often you check in on the captain. You've been burning up the subspace, laddie."

The click and rub of piled data cards, silent since halfway through the chief engineer's response, re-emerged briefly before footsteps and the impact of cloth on cloth let the ensign know that the doctor had given up on reports and gone to sit by his friend. He checked the meter, desperate to finish and leave before he overheard something he would have to report to the First Officer as a security breach.

"It just keeps happening. Every mission, Jim gets hurt. It's been four months, except for those two weeks he stayed on board while I was off the ship. It's been minor lately, but then I've been takin' extra precautions. Scotty, I can't protect him if he won't let me near him. One of the crew will be in danger, or God forbid Spock will be in danger, and he'll go off half-cocked to save the day. He doesn't even think about how dangerous he is."

In the pause that followed, Martin wondered if he should just leave now. There was probably some kind of regulation against eavesdropping on superior officers, even if unintentionally. Regulations had never been Martin's strong point. He mostly tried to be respectful, blend in, and get his job done. If he was going to stay on the Enterprise, he should probably find out exactly what the rule were because following the example of the command team was not going to help him.

"He's a captain for the books – he's in case studies in half the courses at the Academy these days - and he and this whole command team make my job easier than it has any right to be. I've signed fewer death certificates than any flagship CMO in fifty years. I know better than most how good he is at his job.

"Still, when he's careless he risks a huge Starfleet asset and he puts my friend in danger. He's taking on a whole ship's worth of bad luck, and some day it's going to beat me. What will I do if I can't save him?"

Ensign Kowalsky nearly took a page out of his CMO's book and cursed aloud when he scratched the chip he was working on. He grabbed a replacement from his kit and frantically tried to finish his work before the conversation got more personal. Two thuds sounded over his head, probably the chief engineering kicking his legs out in front of him based on their location.

"You and I, Lennie-boy – we're nae fighters. The captain is the heart of this crew, and with it being a voyage of exploration Mr. Spock and his scientists are the mission. A heart's nae good without a body, and a mission needs a ship. I stay on board because and I can scarce bear to leave my lovely lady. How could I forgive myself, if she needed me and I was nae here? You following the captain and the commander to the planet is the same.

"And who can say? With our luck, we'll have nought but medical relief missions after this, and ye'll be back on those away teams before ye know it."

"That would be our luck. That happens, I'm blaming it entirely on Jim's trouble magnet."

Martin could almost hear the doctor rolling his eyes through his wry drawl.

"Just between the two of us, Scotty: if we can get a mission where someone else gets the bad luck, I'll read the bridge crew that Jabberwocky poem Jim liked so much at Nyota's birthday, _and_ release his diet restrictions for a week."

Martin grinned with the low chuckle from the chief engineer.

"I'll be at the transporter bay to hold you to it. A toast to the Captain, in hopes he doesn't make any more work for the two of us. A successful mission," Mr. Scott offered.

" and shared karma," McCoy agreed.

The doctor and the engineer each took a long sip from their tumblers, the mellow smoothness reflecting the contented silence swathing their easy company. In the tube below them, Ensign Martin Kowalsky finished his download and crawled away.

...

It was not entirely coincidental that, the next morning, Ensign Kowalsky was downloading data from the comm hub near the transporter room just before the away team was scheduled to beam down for the final trials on the planet surface. According to the Starfleet manual, eavesdropping while performing tasks related to ones assigned duties was considered incidental and the responsibility for confidentiality fell to the personnel holding the conversation.

It was therefore entirely incidental that he heard the snake-smooth gait of the first officer halt just outside the bay doors. If he leaned close to the wall, it was to better monitor the meter when CMO's bouncing stride hesitated as it rounded the corner to the transporter bay, then continue nearly to the doors.

"Watch out for him down there, Spock." He just made out a scuffed turn and a step back down the hall.

"Yours is not the only watchful eye in defense of the captain's wellbeing." Martin hardly needed the squeak of boot on polished floor to tell that the doctor had spun on his heel at the first officer's gently measured words. Moments later, confident steps accompanied by a rolling amble could only herald the captain and chief engineer.

"Bones.."

"Hey, Jim. I was just telling Spock to have a good time at the rocket show. I'll be in sick bay. Those physicals won't finish themselves." Martin was gaping like a goldfish and slightly relieved that he couldn't see the captain's expression. If he laughed, he would give himself away. Not that he was breaking any regulations. Dr. McCoy walked back to the lift while Captain Kirk continued into the transporter bay leaving Mr. Scott and Mr. Spock paused in the hall.

"What did you make of that safety briefing at breakfast?"

"The good doctor was loquacious and specific. Never before have I met a man who could express his inner soul so fully in the context of a nominally formal presentation."

"Aye, it's a gift. Well, on with the mission?"

"As you say, Mr. Scott."

With a final whirr, the download completed. Only ten more hours to have a prototype tested and ready before Mr. Scott came back. Ensign Martin Kowalsky was determined that it would be enough. No one was getting him off this ship if he could help it.

* * *

Finnegan's Folly is the drink McCoy makes for Kirk in "The Ultimate Computer."

AN: There's an old Earth saying Bones should know: be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. The next two chapters are coming along much better than this one did - I had to draft them out to figure out the arc – so more updates will be forthcoming.

- Arhie


	4. Chapter 4: Left

**Chapter 4: Left**

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Trek_. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

"This is ridiculous."

"Prime directive, Williams. If they say we have to be off the planet, we have to go."

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

"Hey, at least they let us come help this close to their holy days. They're the ones who have to sterilize, move, and reassemble their whole city in 10 days."

"Need any help with those crates?"

"Nah, Scotty´s going to send some people up for them when he has a chance. I'll just put them over them the door. Nice job on the transport, by the way."

"Well, it's easier to get big stuff when it has its own pad. They do this every time outplaneters visit?"

"You see where there aren't a lot of invitations. Good thing there are so many mountains, and most of them have nice, cave-filled cliffs. They won't have to look hard for a new site."

"I suppose. I didn't go down."

"Skipped Dr. McCoy's "optional" first aid training, huh?"

"You have no idea."

"Cuy to transporter room. 'Bout ready for the next group?"

"All set. Is everyone down there ready?"

"Energize.

Hey Williams. Good news: I'm your relief. Hi, Sulu. Are you finally switching to engineering?"

"Just chatting with Williams here. Speaking of: if you're off duty, maybe you can ask the doctor when he'll be offering that course again."

"By myself?"

"Hey, don't look so scared. He´ll probably only yell at the beginning."

"Relax, Williams. He was joking. Hey, before you go, how many people have we brought back?"

"Um. Well, we've had eight beam-ups, and, um…"

"Any empty spots?"

"No. "

"I'll do the math. Thanks."

"Yeah."

…

"Hey, Williams. When's the first aid training? I think a couple of people may be interested."

"I didn't get a chance to ask."

"I know it's hard to believe now, but there is a whole universe of things and people scarier than Dr. McCoy, and you're flying right into them."

"No, I looked. I just couldn't find him yesterday. I'm going to look again today - unless one of those other people want to do it?"

"Not likely. Sorry, kid. Look, he hasn't been up here. If you can't find him in Sick Bay, you can always ask Commander Spock to look him up on the computer."

"Lieutenant!"

"I was kidding, Williams. Ask Chapel, if you don't see him. We beamed up so fast yesterday that he's probably hip-deep in the piles of supplies that medical just got back."

"I'll check."

"Let me know about that course."

"Yes, sir!"

...

"I haven't seen him, but it's been madness. He must be debriefing the captain. With the pace we kept down there, I wouldn't be surprised if he were on the bridge for a week."

"Is there anywhere else he could be?"

"He hasn't been down in Sick Bay since the beam-up, so he must be on the bridge. The captain isn't that scary, dear. If you need to talk to the doctor, you'll have a chance."

"It's just, ma'am, I just came from the bridge. He's not there. Lieutenant Sulu said he hasn't been there since the beam-out, either."

"Really."

"Yes, ma'am."

"M'Benga, have you seen Len?"

"Not since he beamed down. Has he not been working on inventory with you? "

"Chapel to Bridge."

"Come in, Nurse."

"We're having some trouble locating Dr. McCoy. Have you seen him since the beamout?"

"I take it he's not in Sick Bay."

"No, sir."

"Spock?"

"Sensors do not show him on the ship, Captain."

"Repeat scan."

"The results are unchanged, Captain."

"Computer, retrieve transporter logs for yesterday. Thank you, Nurse. I'll keep you updated. Kirk out."

...

"Enterprise to McCoy. Come in, Mc –"

"What in blazes happened?"

"Sorry, Bones. We had a miscount on the transporter and thought everyone was on board. We came back as soon as we realized the mistake."

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a piece of forgotten luggage!"

"Are you hurt?"

"Bored halfway crazy from staring at a wall. Couldn't risk contaminating the move, and figured it would be better if our friends didn't notice your little oversight."

"Why weren't you at the beam up?"

"All the tunnels look alike. They were busy, and I got lost on the way out. Is Scotty there?"

"Aye, I came up special for the occasion, Doctor."

"I don't suppose you'd oblige me with a beam-up?"

"Could ye move a wee bit out of the rocks, Doctor? They're interferin' with the signal."

"Sure, Scotty. How far off the damn cliff would be enough for your sensors?"

"I'll do me best, Doctor."

* * *

AN: I hope you enjoyed! The next chapter is mostly done and should be up soon. Please let me know what you think.

-Arhie


	5. Chapter 5: Kept

**Chapter 5: Kept**

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Star Trek_. This story is written with love for the characters, and no copyright infringement is intended._

* * *

Five weeks after they'd shown up, the epidemic was finally under control. Leonard McCoy straightened the collar of his dress uniform. Feasts, especially those honoring the medical team´s efforts, oughta consider the dress preference of the CMO. It was just as well. His standard uniforms were various degrees of unpresentable since the `freshers on the Enterprise had been tied up with the needs of the patients ever since they responded to this distress call. At least the worst was over. Tomorrow, when they left orbit, he would request the first available shore leave, or at least some extra shifts of liberty, for his exhausted team.

Most plague responses involved coordinating with the local medical teams, but this time they had been completely alone. Not a single doctor, nurse, or medical technician came to help, and family members refused to assist with care. He could understand them being scared – similar things had happened in Earth's great plagues – but that didn't make it any easier on the Enterprise medical staff.

He ended up having to request extra guards just to have enough hands, although he didn't generally like having that many guns around a medical facility. Normally he'd ask Scotty to lend him some engineering staff – they had some science background, and were usually good with their hands – but they were busy keeping up with the power requirements of a planet devastated by an epidemic after having been flattened by war. McCoy had to admit, however, that the guards had done fine work and seemed to appreciate the change of pace. Next time he would remember to specify that they leave their phasers onboard. He could have done that this time, but something about this planet had him twitching like an earthwork in a frying pan. The past few weeks, especially, he slept better knowing there were bright red uniforms among the medical blues.

He gave his sleeves one last tug. They deserved a celebration, although he wished he could stay on board and attend the one command had put together for the junior officers. He'd let M'Benga and Chapel beg off – they were plum beat – but no excuse, bargain, or threat had moved Jim. Someone had to represent the guests of honor, and he was the CMO. Hence this fool outfit.

..

Spock, of course, was impeccable in his dress uniform, and Jim looked awake, confident, and ready to charm the tail off a cat – everything McCoy did not feel just then. McCoy spared them a collective glare as he joined them waiting for their hosts.

"Bones! I don't think I've seen you with your hair washed since – well, actually, I'm not sure."

"If we'd had power and time to spare, I would have showered more often."

"You look good."

"I hate this uniform."

"Indeed, Doctor, few who have attended formal events in your company are spared knowledge of the fact."

"You can take your pointy-eared opinions and use them to disimpact the next ensign who eats Scotty´s haggis."

"My opinions, being insubstantial, have neither ears nor form for such a suggestion, and furthermore – "

"Gentlemen. Our hosts."

One dinner. He'd just accept everyone's thanks politely like his mama taught him and let Jim do most of the talking.

..

Halfway through the soup course, McCoy realized that he was enjoying the feast. The food was excellent – cryin' shame they hadn't cooked for the medical tent – and the people, in contrast to their behavior during the past 5 weeks, were friendly and eager to talk with the Enterprise team. Each course was served at a buffet, and all diners shuffled seats after choosing their meal, providing a constant stream of new companions. He noticed that the seat to either side of him was always left empty – evidently, it would take more than the one shower to get weeks of field hospital out of his pores – but he enjoyed chatting with Sangrans across the table. He was almost done with a plateful of something sweet and creamy and unpronounceable and feeling nearly at ease when one of the Sangrans approached him.

"Doctor, if I might trouble you."

McCoy couldn't remember the exact status of their government, but he was pretty sure this was the head guy.

"My daughter is ill. She was spared, thank Eryth, the epidemic, and I did not wish to expose her to the disease, but if you would be kind enough to see her, I would be grateful. Your great ship leaves on the morn, and I hoped to avail her of your expertise."

McCoy boosted himself to his feet, bowing to his companions as the protocol officer had taught him in the cultural briefing. Duty called; as Jim once put it, he was a doctor, and here was a patient. * Spock rose with McCoy.

"Shall I accompany you, Doctor?"

"Nah, better keep an eye on Jim," McCoy murmured. "If there's any kind of trouble, with our luck, Jim will find it. I can handle a sick kid. Thanks, though."

"Very well, Doctor. I remind you, however, that – "

"Thanks are illogical. Yes. So am I." With a grin at Spock´s raised eyebrow, McCoy disappeared up a staircase, slinging his medkit over his shoulder as he went.

..

He dreamed of cold, and woke to a stone floor.

"Jim? Jim, Spock?"

His efforts to sit up were severely impeded by the padded leather binding his hands. Trying to push from behind, he winced at the awkward pull on his shoulder, now stiff from who-knew-how-long in what he was quickly coming to consider a particularly God-forsaken corner of the galaxy.

By the time he worked his torso upright on the wall, enough light had entered for him to determine that he was in a small, barred cell at one side of what appeared to be a ceremonial room with a domed glass sunroof and some kind of table in the center. His cell was set back into a nook in the wall, limiting his view of the space. He´d be able to see more if he could get to the bars but he was bone weary and – orthostatic? If this was the same night he remembered, he knew he wasn´t dehydrated. Chapel had recruited one of the security crewmen who had been struggling with the medical work (who had ever heard of squeamish guards?) to keep all the medical stations stocked with drinking water. The kid had attacked the task with an enthusiasm that had endeared him to the initially skeptical medics.

"Jim? Spock?"

He leaned his head back. The dizziness was already fading. He didn't seem to be injured, although his hand hurt a little and there was something on the back of it that he couldn't quite scrape off against the silky material of his dress tunic. He wasn´t hungry, so he couldn't have been here too long. His head didn't hurt, and his vision seemed fine, not that he could test it well, so probably no trauma to explain the dizziness and missing hours. He was still in his dress uniform, and the cotton-pickin' collar was starting to itch. He didn't smell too bad, so again, he couldn't have been here too long. He was tired, like he'd just finished his annual fitness exam. Grimacing, he braced his back and bound hands against the wall and started working his way to his feet.

The room brightened into the now-familiar pink glow of Sangran dawn as a door, apparently somewhere to his left, swung open with only a whisper of the metal hinges popular on this planet. He had time to note that it must be a nice door to make so little racket before his host of the feast and two valets- although the part of McCoy brain that stored his childhood love of melodramatic detective stories was inclined to call them henchmen at this point – entered his field of vision. They were also dressed as they had been at the dinner. It must be the same night, then. Good. The Enterprise was still in orbit. He made it to his feet as the cell door opened and the henchmen – valets – headed his way looking nothing but business.

"What the hell is going on?" He sidestepped into a corner, trying to remember if he'd learned how to defend himself in this kind of situation, whatever this situation was. If he had, he'd forgotten. Time to improvise, which in martial arts was really more Jim´s snifter of bourbon. Pressing his shoulders into the small space, he blinked away another wave of orthostasis. Jim would probably have some kind of punch-move to hold off the approaching goons, and Spock would probably just annoy them to death with his logic, but he, McCoy, was out of ideas and out of time. He got in a few desperate ducks and lunges before one henchman (Spock wasn't here to object to the nickname) had a vise grip on the base of his neck, bowing his back and pushing him to his knees, as the other lifted his crossed wrists until a he grunted in fear, surprise, and pain.

"What's the idea?"

His wrists twisted in the rope, turning it into a tourniquet. McCoy felt the - whatever- something hard and dry – be peeled off his hand, and a focusing moment of pain. There was a sound of liquid on metal, then liquid on liquid, and McCoy knew that the heart pounding in his chest and head was only helping Thing 1 and Thing 2. Suddenly his wrists twisted back to the slightly more comfortable neutral and something wet and cold and sticky which McCoy could now identify as old-fashioned plaster was on his hand. He could feel nausea approaching and tried to lean his head below his heart. If the cup that Chief Sangran was now gesticulating and chanting over was filled with his blood, he was going to feel this. Muscles stiff from five weeks of leaning over low cots, and apparently about seven hours on rocks, kept his head away from the cold contact it demanded.

"What. Are you doing."

Normally he'd add a few more adverbs, but his brain was working hard to get out even that coherent a sentence. He looked up in time to see Chief Sangran pour the contents of the goblet down his own throat.

"Dammit, I'm a doctor, not a soda fountain! Last time I checked, I did you a pretty big favor. What's going on?"

"Blood of the Healer, Doctor. The blood brings strength, wisdom, and victory in battle. Yours will allow me to conquer and end at last the 20 years of war that have afflicted our people."

"There are ways of asking nicely for these things, and more sterile ways of taking blood than with a knife to the vein. For that matter, why not use one of your own goddamn doctors?" Squinting up from where he knelt on the floor, McCoy gave up on remembering the chief's name. He'd read it in the pre-mission memo, but Jim had dealt with diplomacy on this trip, praise be. Buried in the field hospital, McCoy hadn't spared the man a thought in over a month.

"Few have survived the war, and those who did are in hiding. Blood of the Healer came into regular use eight years ago. Volunteers, at first, those who hoped to end the slaughter. Of course, less voluntary with time. I could not risk your refusal."

"For some blood? I've got a couple of liters up in stasis on the ship."

"It must be fresh, Doctor. Blood, taken fresh from the healer and drunk at the corners of the day, will bring glory, honor, and peace. Your red blood, made of molecules with four parts, will succeed when we have failed for so many years. The quadrad, four by four, will be complete."

"I'm afraid we're not allowed to interfere with your wars. As a Starfleet officer, I'm required to leave when the epidemic is contained."

"I cannot allow our hope for peace to be lost. You must stay."

His bonds were well tied, and he couldn't seem to straighten more than his back out of the slumped kneeling crouch where the henchmen had left him. McCoy decided to give diplomacy a whirl. Not much to lose, anyway. "OK, well. If that's the case, there's what, 200 cc in that cup? I'll tell you what. Untie me, give me back my medical kit, and I'll give you the blood – sterilely – so I don' tend up with an infection in addition to the cramps after this. Let me hail the ship, since I assume you didn't tell Captain Kirk where I am, and I'll tell him I can beam back up tonight.

"That will not be possible, Doctor."

"Come on. I'll stick with the deal. Scout's honor."

"The ritual lasts 4 days. Four hemeos of blood, four times daily for four days – the most powerful number, bringing power, victory, and an end at last."

"I'm beginning to see why no one wants to be a medic on this planet."

"The next corner is midday, Doctor. I suggest you rest until then."

"Now wait a second – "

"Your friends have been informed that my daughter's illness is serious, and that you will stay with her until the fever breaks. You have asked, of course, not to be disturbed, and that the two of you remain quarantined until you are sure of the disease's infectiousness. We are loathe, after all, to start a new epidemic."

"Aren't you a thorough son of a bitch."

"This war must end, Doctor."

McCoy was left kneeling in the brightening chamber, alone.

..

It was, he kept reminding himself, a fairly painless way to die. The cuts were small and always sealed with putty. He slept often, dreams fading into a swirling gray world. He'd certainly seen worse ways to go, the past five weeks definitely included. He must have been drugged at first, because he felt a little better as the day wore on. Even so, after the first day, he never made it back on his feet, settling for squirming against the wall and trying to convince himself that the anxiety was all a sympathetic response to blood loss.

He warned them, that first day, that Sangran blood volumes were higher than human, and that he wouldn't be alive to provide fresh blood for all four days of their precious ritual without at least water, but the henchmen didn't listen – they just took the blood, watched the ritual, and left. At least the ritual bowel cleansing, mercifully performed while he was unconscious, spared him one indignity of several days trapped in a cell. Spock would be able to tell him his odds of survival, to the third decimal point. He'd probably update him every hour, too, the hobgoblin. Scotty would rig up an SOS signal to the ship with the gild off his uniform and leftover plaster. Jim, he was sure, would not be panicking. He must. Not. Panic.

By halfway through the second day, he couldn't think of a good reason to sit up, and stayed curled on his side, head tucked to his shoulder against the unsteady world. He had the impression that the cuts were getting deeper, and longer, and moving higher on his arm. By the end of the second day, they were reaching for arterial blood. If he'd calculated right – and he couldn't be sure at the moment – he would be unconscious by halfway through the third day. A few more hours, then. It was already better. He slept even more now, and passed the rest of the time trying to think of what Spock or Jim would do, how they would escape, whether they would realize that something was wrong, and whether they should, or would be able to, do anything about it.

..

The noise dragged him back to the surface. His first guess was an asthmatic sow about to snack on him. McCoy opened his eyes, and his first thought was that it had taken far too much effort. He tried to focus his eyes but found only a world of white. The higher pitched noises sped up – and suddenly there was color in his world.

"Hey, Len. Are you coming back to us?"

Blue, yellow. Christine Chapel came into focus.

"You gave us quite a scare there, Doctor. Don't try to talk – you still need to rest.

McCoy tried to glare, but decided it was too much effort.

"The captain is the one imitating a combustion engine next to you. I'll let him know you woke up when he does. It's been a long week. Stop trying to sit up, Len. Really, all three of you should be sedated ."

She must have acted on her words, because he didn't remember anything else.

..

"I thought we'd lost you this time, Bones."

"Indeed, Doctor, your physical condition when we at last discovered you has led to a reconsideration of protocol determining the length of time invested in diplomacy in cases of missing crewmen."

"Aw, Spock. I didn't know you cared."

"Replacement of your skills, such as they are, would require return to a starbase and therefore significant loss of time to the detriment of the mission."

"Sure. How did you get me out of there?"

"Despite your emotional tendencies, Doctor, you are diligent in placing check-in calls. When we missed your updates, and it became clear that our hosts would not assist us in locating you and your patient, we undertook the search without their aid."

"Just the two of you?"

"Do not be ridiculous, Doctor. Of course we were accompanied by guards."

"Any chance they actually got to do their jobs? "

Two matching, unapologetic expressions answered him better than a vid record.

"Y'all gotta stop counting on luck and duct tape to get you out of these things, especially when I'm not in condition to fix you up afterwards."

"Duct tape, Doctor?"

"Ask Scotty."

..

"You scared the hell out of us, Bones – Spock included, whether he'll admit it or not."

"It wasn't exactly my idea of a beach picnic, either. Besides, what'd you want me to do, go easy on him? He'd die of shock, and then who'd keep an eye on you?"

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading!I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I really appreciate those of you who have been along for this project with me. If you're just joining us now, welcome.

Science and Trekkie footnotes:

Orthostasis refers to feeling dizzy, getting light-headed, or blacking out vision when you elevate your head, as in sitting up or (usually) standing. It happens when the body can´t regulate blood pressure fast enough to perfuse the brain, and can be associated with blood pressure medications, dehydration, and blood loss.

Hemoglobin, the molecule that makes blood cells red, is made up of four subunits, or pieces.

A "cc," or cubic centimeter, is a milliliter. 200 mL is a little less than a cup.

* Paraphrased from Season 1 Episode 25, "The Devil in the Dark."

I didn't make up the concept of the check-in calls. Missed calls were the impetus for the Big Three to go planetside in "Catspaw."

Please review!

-Arhie


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